I was a found object. Uprooted at the earliest moments in life. Adopted and Co-opted. I have no real history beyond what I see in the mirror. I can claim no land, traditions or culture as my own. My history is a locked Pandora's box I carry with me everywhere I go, as much a part of me as my toenails, yet I have no capacity to open it. I have pried at it in futility, created fiction to explain it, and attempted to abandon it, but nothing has enlightened me beyond the face that reflects back at me. The history of those who raised me fits me like a hand-me-down, ultimately it belongs to another and I just borrow it, much like a costume.  These two histories bisect and conflict and leave me permanently displaced. The objects I craft and the marks I make often reflect this dichotomy. From the time I was small, deconstructions have transfixed my imagination. Even then I inherently understood that the juxtaposition of previously unrelated materials had the potential create new meaning. I have always pulled apart what I had found and was given and rebuilt them in my own image. I create my own language and decipher these riddles, and in the process construct my own history. I am drawn to found objects, recycling an often unknown but accessible history, mesmerized by the lingering residues of a previous existence. Context layered upon context.

The Bunny Trap	Tension in the Neighborhood Fabric	Nature/Nurture
Joy Ride	Training Wheels	Naughty Nanette